They returned from fishing at dusk. The baskets were filled with silver fish, still wriggling, their scales catching the fading light like shards of moonlight. The damp river air clung to their clothes, and their heavy footsteps echoed through the small stone house.
Gérard, despite the wrinkles carved by years of labor and fatigue, smiled at the sight of his sons. He cherished these simple moments more than he could ever admit. Without a word, he lit the fire and set about preparing the meal. The sizzle of oil, the aroma of dried herbs, and the rich scent of grilled fish filled the room, warming the cold evening air.
"Boys, set the table," he said, his voice firm yet gentle, a mixture of authority and affection.
Eduard and Malton obeyed, clumsy but attentive. Soon, Gérard placed the dish in the center of the table, served them carefully, and took his seat. For a while, only the soft clinking of cutlery and the fire's crackle filled the room.
Then Gérard's eyes fell on Eduard's cheek. A dark mark, a redness no mere fall could explain. His gaze hardened.
"Let me see your cheek," he demanded.
Eduard lowered his head, fidgeting with his bread.
"It's nothing, Papa…"
"Your cheek," Gérard repeated, voice firm and unyielding.
The boy finally turned toward him.
"I… I fell," he whispered.
Silence pressed down. Gérard slowly turned to Malton. No explanation was needed. His heart tightened; he saw in his eldest son's eyes the same stubborn spark he had once admired in someone else… Rosa.
"I told you not to hit your brother again," he said sternly.
"But he didn't mean to, Papa!" protested Eduard, eyes glistening.
"That's enough. Malton, go to your room."
The eldest rose silently, fists clenched, shoulders tense. But as he reached the stairs, Eduard burst out:
"He wants to be a swordsman… like Mom!"
Gérard's fork froze mid-air. His breath caught.
"What?" he whispered, incredulous.
Malton stopped, back turned, hands trembling slightly. Eduard pressed on, almost pleading:
"Tell him, Malton! Tell him the truth!"
The eldest spun around sharply, eyes blazing with anger and shame.
"You promised you wouldn't tell… you liar!" he shouted before disappearing into his room, slamming the door.
"You too, go upstairs," Gérard ordered Eduard, whose tears were already threatening. No dessert tonight.
The younger sniffled, vexed, and climbed slowly, his dragging steps echoing on the wooden floor.
The house fell into a heavy silence. Gérard remained alone at the table, hands clenched on the wood, eyes fixed on the flickering candle flame. His gaze then rested on a photograph by the hearth: Rosa, his late wife. Her radiant smile seemed to defy time and misfortune.
He sighed.
"It's you who passed this… this thirst for the sword… to them," he murmured, voice broken.
A clear, distant laugh echoed in his mind. He closed his eyes, and the memories of the past returned.
---
Fifteen Years Earlier
The battlefield reeked of blood and gunpowder. Under a sky set ablaze, the screams of the dying pierced the air. Gérard, a young kingdom physician, galloped in, followed by a squad of knights.
All around him, bodies lay twisted, some still convulsing in agony.
"Help! I'm in pain!" cried a soldier, eyes rolling.
"It hurts!" begged another, chest pierced.
"Ahhhhhh!" screamed a third, leg shattered.
Gérard leapt from his horse, leather satchel beating against his hip. His hands trembled, yet he could not hesitate. Kneeling beside the wounded, he tore bandages, poured potions, stemmed the bleeding with urgent precision. Every breath wrested from death was a victory.
"Stop treating them! They're our enemies!" a voice roared behind him.
An enemy soldier, blade drawn, advanced. Gérard ignored him, steadfast, eyes locked on the wounded man he was trying to save.
"You're not listening?!"
The man grabbed him and hurled him into the mud. Gérard rolled, breathless. Pain radiated through his back.
"That'll teach you to disobey, doctor's dog!"
He raised his sword—but a shadow fell behind him. A woman. Her black hair whipped through the air, her eyes sharp as blades. She moved silently, plunging a dagger into his foe's chest. The man collapsed.
"Never learned that attacking the wounded is cowardly?" she said, her icy voice sharp as judgment.
With swift, precise movements, she faced the remaining attackers. Her blade glittered through the smoke, every strike a deadly dance: a spin, a thrust, a feint, a throat cut. Gérard, lying in the mud, watched in awe.
When silence finally returned, she approached him. Her hand extended firmly, confidently.
"My name is Rosa Emilstone. And you?"
Gérard lifted his eyes, dazed. The setting sun bathed the scene behind her, highlighting her features with almost unreal beauty. He remained speechless, lips trembling, unable to speak.
Rosa laughed, a clear, crystalline laugh, almost incongruous amid the carnage. It was that day, amid chaos and blood, that Gérard's destiny was forever changed.